


Absolute Zero

by alynshir



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Guilt, Memories, Reflections Comic, Second Person, Snow, Winter, i am sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-09-10 19:13:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8930452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alynshir/pseuds/alynshir
Summary: Widowmaker isn't sure why she is here. Nor is she in any way sure of what she wants to say. But she'll try anyway.





	

**Author's Note:**

> backstory: I saw the new comic in which she is angsting in the cemetery on Christmas and this oneshot kinda just erupted right out of my brain like some weird Greek goddess/volcano combination.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

"It is cold."

It is the only thing you can think to say. Because it is - as ascertained by the snow, and the television when it is tuned to channel 7, and the way people walk huddled tightly into their coats and their scarves down the empty streets -, and you have been standing here for ten minutes already, silent as the greyscale twilight darkens. Your words curl into icy smoke as they leave your lips, and you push your hands deeper into your coat pockets, flexing your fingers before curling them into fists.

(You aren't cold. At least, you don't  _ think  _ you are cold. Your body just remembers things on its own, sometimes, even though your mind was told not to. It remembers things, things like snatching the coat off of the chair and shrugging it on before you leave, or like cringing at the creak of the door as you left, or like what to do with your hands when they are cold. What a traitorous body you have, you think, daring to know things that you were told you didn’t need to know anymore. Perhaps it fits you, though, perhaps a little too well. Like a glove. Which you didn’t think to hunt down before leaving, to go stand outside in the cold. You never were perfect.)

(He knew that about you.)

You stand there, hesitant. What you are hesitating from, you do not know. You aren’t supposed to hesitate, anyway. A weak action, or lack thereof. That is what you think of hesitation. Waiting is one thing. You lay in wait constantly. There is no weakness in patience. But you are not waiting. Nothing is supposed to happen. You are just standing in the snow, shifting back and forth on the balls of your feet, hesitating, eyes tracing letters you were once intimately familiar with, letters that books say would haunt you in your dreams - if you dreamt at all, that is. Snow flies up from the ground at the motion. You are wearing heels, simple, normal heels. Perhaps a mistake on your part. The snow lingers against the tops of your feet, silvery, then trickles down the sides, and dissolves slowly into dampness, pooling in your shoes. Your lip pulls up above your teeth, ever so slightly, disdainful at the discomfort, at the faint  _ squelch _ beneath your heels. 

Such things are not supposed to bother you.

“It is cold,” you say again, louder, and this time, you think you mean it beyond what you can objectively observe. You don’t know how you have reached this conclusion. You just do. The innateness, the  _ feeling... _ you do not like it. “It is cold.”

Your voice echoes a bit, soft like snow off of the stones, and the ground, and the wind, and the night. There comes no answer to you, and logically, if there  _ had  _ been, that would have been more of a cause for concern. At least, in the common phrasing, it would be, because you are not supposed to feel concern in the first place. Nor worry, or any sort of uncertain emotion at all. You are supposed to feel confident and sure in your completion of an assignment, or nothing.

But this is no assignment. No mission. And you are still unsure of why you are here at all. Yet, you continue to stand there, in silence, as the snow falls gently around you.

Why can you think of nothing else to say? This is pathetic. Surely the entire cemetery knows that it is cold, and if they did not, you have stated it at least four times now. Surely everyone has heard. The thought is preposterous. Everyone has heard, and yet you are alone, here - there is nobody to hear! Anyone else that would be here is no doubt home, a word you have not used in what feels like a lifetime, and you are alone, standing in a grey cemetery made of stone and bones and people long forgotten.

But you have not forgotten.

No matter what anyone tells you to do, what anyone makes you think, you have not forgotten.

What a traitorous mind you have. Traitor, traitor, traitor. Twice over now, twice over and twice within each, that is four times a traitor, and it turns your fingertips purple as your breath picks up, your heart beats faster, skipping steps as the realisation dawns on you.

And to top it off, you do not even know why you are here.  _ Say something that matters,  _ you think, but what matters? You do not even know why you are here. No - you do know, you do, that is a lie to say you don’t; you do, but you shouldn’t, you aren’t supposed to. You shouldn’t be here, but you cannot make yourself move - you are frozen here, your fingers clenched in your pockets, your toes curled away from the slush freezing in your shoes, blinking away snow, it is cold, and you are so, you are so --

“ _ Je suis désolée _ ,” you hear, and you actually look around, eyes flashing, searching for someone, anyone who could have been the source of the sentence - because that is  _ not _ your voice, that cannot be your voice. It is pathetic, you think, weak! You hear cracks and tremors in a voice that cannot be yours even if your lips are in the proper formations to create them, you cannot be so weak, so pitiful, so  _ human; _  you are more than that, you were made to be more than that - your next breath catches in your throat, rough as the words still echo softly off the stone, as they disappear into the grey skies, drifting away on the wind, somewhere, to where somehow, in some way, they might matter to someone, anyone. Except the only person that it would matter to, is why you are here. You have not forgotten.

“It is cold.”

The words barely whisper past your lips; tight, ragged, an apology that doesn’t matter. You turn on your heel, and walk away, hands shoved deep into your pockets, clenched in fists.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed! If you'd like to prompt something from me, my tumblr is alynshirslover.tumblr.com :)


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